Willis Haviland Carrier Is A God

Last June, I bought myself the greatest gift a man can get for another man. I’m talking about something that would, by comparison, make a night at the Bunny Ranch seem like the gift of Hepatitis B (although, in some cases the two are one and the same). I speak, of course, of the gift of Air-Conditioning.

Laugh if you must, but until you’ve lived through three solid months of 96 degrees and 85% humidity, you don’t really understand how fantastic a gift this was. I remember lying in my bed one night, covered in ice-filled water bottles and praying for the sweet release of death.

It seems to me like A/C is still a novel thing. Maybe because owning a unit is still so new to me. I don’t think I even owned a car with working air-conditioning until 2002. I’m sure that I was the last person in Western Hemisphere to own one. That doesn't stop me from acting as though I’m one of only three people in world who has one of these mystical devices. I brag about it to all my friends. I even tend to drop it into conversations where it has absolutely no bearing.

“Guys…I have cancer.”

“So what? I have Air-Conditioning!”

Awkward silence.

Sometimes I wonder about the man who owned the first air-conditioner. No matter how big a fortune he made, I think he was being a little short-sided on the pussy aspect of his invention. Think about: it’s 110 degrees. Women are literally collapsing in their hoopskirts around the cracker barrel at the town’s general store. Men are trying to impress the swooning ladies by comparing whose hat most resembles Lincoln’s. Suddenly, our man swoops in.

“Excuse me, madam” says Bartlebee Hupswithen, a fellow whose wagon wheels are equipped with spinners. “Mightest thou come thither and gettest thy groove-thing on athwart my mule?”

“Oh Mister Hupswithen!” proclaims Abigail Cockswollow, a lady who is so top-heavy, she looks to be in immanent danger of being toppling over. “Pray tell, is it true that your pants conceal a length of sausage greater than three hand-spans?”

“That and more, my lady.” Grins Bartlebee. “Come forgo thy hoopskirt and modesty. Let’s gettest us busy.”

“Excuse me, Abigail” says our inventor. “I’ve just completedest an aero-conditioner.”

“Fucketh me now!” demands Abigail.

Seriously, if you were the only man with an air-conditioner, the amount of women you could get would be unholy. It wouldn’t even be fair. It’s ten times the equivalent of the man who invented funk.

In my mind, the man has already been elevated to the status of God on Earth. It’s him then Prometheus then George Foreman. I’ll have you know that it’s currently 20 degrees in my bedroom right now. My dog is one nap away from being encased in ice for future generations to discover. I'm considering installing a number hooks on my ceiling in case I want to store 35 sides of beef there. And I’ve never been happier. I know a lot of people are probably thinking that I’ve gone overboard here. However, we’ll see who’s laughing when August rolls around. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go sacrifice a goat to Willis Haviland Carrier.